


Somewhere Only We Know

by spacedmuch



Series: Not Everyone-verse [3]
Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: American Politics, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 14:30:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11038104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacedmuch/pseuds/spacedmuch
Summary: It's a new world out there. However, there's one place that is always constant.





	Somewhere Only We Know

**Author's Note:**

> A completely unnecessary addition.

It had been a long day.

Andy could feel the weight of it bearing down on her, bending her spine.

She felt tired in ways she hadn’t for some time. A soul crushing defeat etched into her bones.

The rules that had governed her world were gone.

Demagogues were supposed to be the stuff of history and legend, the leaders of foreign nations far removed from the long standing tradition of American democracy.

She recalled a certain pride that once existed deep in her soul. A pride at being born and raised in the land of the free.

She could recall a conversation with Mike Roberts’ one evening while they had been sitting outside, marvelling at the clear sky after a _shamal_ , a sandstorm, her first of many that summer.

‘Everyone hates Americans, Andy,’ he had said with a laugh. ‘You lot have got to be the most despised group of people on the planet. Loud, arrogant, and stumbling into countries like bulls in a china shop before walking out and proclaiming the destruction an improvement.’

She hadn’t spoken to Roberts’ for a couple of months.

It was probably about time she gave him a call. He would have a lot to say about this.

Andy put the key in the lock and pushed the front door open. Rather than the empty house she was expecting, warm light flooded the foyer and clanging was coming from the kitchen.

She smiled as she shucked off her Nike trainers and hung her coat in the closet. It was a rare day when Miranda was home before she was, but Andy suspected it wouldn’t be the last. Since the primaries she had found herself being drawn back into old circles, and the need for objective journalism had increased tenfold since November. 

Today was no exception.

Andy walked stiffly towards the kitchen, a full day on her feet taking its toll on an injury which still liked to plague her now and then. She slung her bag carelessly over the newel post at the bottom of the staircase before entering the warm room and allowing some of the weight of the day to slip from her shoulders. 

The world may be going mad, but there were still some constants left.

Miranda had her back to the entranceway, her knife work quick and efficient as she sliced through a ball of mozzarella. 

Andy breathed in the smells of the kitchen, appreciating, not for the first time, Miranda’s exceptional skills in the kitchen.

Miranda’s silhouette was one of a woman in control. She was wearing a pair of blue tailored pants Andy recognized from Maison Rabih Kayrouz’s Spring 2017 collection, and a crisp white shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

Since the election, Miranda seemed to have embraced her inner Hepburn and Clinton, cladding herself in power suits like they were an effective armour against the tidal wave of white male conservative values that were washing away any sense of freedom and choice, even in a city like New York.

‘Are you just going to stand there and gape all evening? The fish needs taken out,’ Miranda said without taking her eyes off the Mediterranean salad she was throwing together at a rapid pace.

Andy chuckled, quickly following her orders. ‘You’re home early,’ she said as she grabbed a tea towel and opened the oven door.

‘It was a slow day.’

‘It’s never a slow day at Runway – where do you want this?’ she said as she pulled the tray of glistening whitefish from the oven and felt her stomach rumble.

Miranda brandished her knife in the direction of the table, flecks of tomato juice flying across the kitchen. ‘I saw you on CNN. I had a feeling you might be home later than usual. 

Andy could hear the slight rebuke in the tone and rolled her eyes. ‘Ah, so this is another ‘Andrea, you’re overdoing it’ dinner I take it?’

Miranda didn’t bother to respond.

She didn’t have to. Andy knew she had been pushing things a bit lately. The White Face of Islam, they called her. It wasn’t a moniker she had ever sought, and it bought with it some charming additions to her life, such as TV appearances, a whole slew of internet memes and an exceptional amount of death threats, from the alt-right and Muslims alike.

Miranda hadn’t been happy about the development, however, Caroline & Cassidy had taken great pleasure in forwarding her screen caps of some of the more colourful tweets they came across after each of her appearances on network news.

Andy put the tray down on the table and turned back to Miranda, pushing through the silence coming from the kitchen. ‘We always knew he was the worst kind of idiot.’

Miranda threw the contents of the chopping board into an already laden bowl and reached for the olive oil as she allowed Andy her segue. ‘You have to give him credit, I don't believe anyone has ever reached this level of moronic.'

‘And this is just the beginning. People are already gathering at airports in protest. This could be a long week for me,’ Andy said as she sank into one of the chairs at the table, a dull ache building behind her eyes.

She could feel Miranda watching her closely and could predict the next word out of her mouth in _3…2…1—_

‘Headache?’ Miranda asked, her tone all knowing and a tiny bit smug.

Denial was pointless. ‘Mm hmm.’

Miranda moved from the kitchen and put two Advil down on the table with a glass of water without comment for a change. ‘At least get an early night tonight,’ she said gently, a suggestion for once, as opposed to an order.

Andy nodded as she reached for the pills, pushing aside the ever present frustration at her injuries. The leg was a pain in the ass, but the effects of the head injury had lingered for longer than she expected. They held her back. Slowed her down.

She leant back in her chair and closed her eyes, waiting for the Advil to do its work.

Andy sensed Miranda moving back out of the kitchen. ‘Do you have anything scheduled for tomorrow?’ she asked as she approached.

‘CNN again,’ Andy said, rubbing her temples, ‘Word is some attorneys are going to bring suits to challenge the legality of the ban, but they may take a couple of days to get the cases to court.’

‘And then justice shall prevail?’

‘We can hope,’ Andy said.

‘It always does. In time,’ Miranda said as she put the salad down and sat across from Andy with a glass of wine.

‘Miranda Priestly, the optimist,’ Andy chuckled as she opened her eyes and leant forward in her chair.

‘No, the realist,’ Miranda corrected. ‘There is still such a thing as the law. Not even the President can avoid that fact.’

‘I wish I had as much faith in the system as you seem to,’ Andy said as she eyed the salad on the table.  ‘Cheese? The world really _must_ be ending.’

‘Do you see any carbohydrates on this table?’ Miranda said pointedly. 

‘Good point.’

‘Now eat something, you look like you’re at death’s door.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,’ Andy quipped as she grabbed a piece of mozzarella straight from the bowl, popped it into her mouth and groaned.

Miranda sighed like an aggrieved wife as she served herself and then proceeded to fill a plate for Andy.

They ate in reasonable peace, Andy content to be in a familiar space where the ground felt steady.

Miranda never seemed frazzled. Always untouchable. It was like the affairs of the world never threw her off course.

‘Aren’t you worried?’ Andy said around a mouthful of fish.

‘About what?’

‘Today. Trump. All of it. It feels like everything is falling apart to me, like the very fabric of our nation is tearing at the seams and you seem…I don’t know…fine? Calm?’

‘My father was an immigrant coalminer in England, Andrea. I’ve lived through great poverty, days without food on the table, and industrial action spanning months, even years. I was here when Reagan ignored the AIDs epidemic. I was here when Pan Am 103 was bombed and the U.S. learned to fear terrorism for the first time,’ Miranda said, taking another sip of her wine.

‘You know, sometimes I forget—' 

‘That I’m old?’ Miranda said, brow rising.

Andy laughed, ‘No. Just that the world has faced so much in such a short period of time.’

‘Andrea, this is not the first time in history that a government has done something stupid and I doubt it will be the last. It’s too early to panic yet. It may not seem like it, but there are always checks and balances. He is still only one man.’

Andy lowered her voice and looked at Miranda in faux seriousness. ‘Do you have a guy? I feel like the world could use a guy right now,’ she finished in a whisper.

‘If I had a _guy_ do you really think you’d still be here?’ Miranda said as she popped a forkful into her mouth.

‘I heard you were quite distraught when you thought I was dead,’ Andy said with a grin.

‘If I’d known what I would have to put up with afterwards, I might have reconsidered my level of _distraught_ behaviour,’ Miranda said, not missing a beat.

Andy laughed. Time had healed a lot of wounds. They weren’t perfect, not by a long shot, but they had pieced things back together somehow.

When Miranda had finished her dinner, Andy stood to collect their plates. ‘Thank you for this,’ she said. ‘I needed the world to feel a little less out of control today.’

‘You can always ask, Andrea. I’ll be here, when you need me.’

Andy stopped. ‘I know, I just…’

‘Hate asking for help?’ Miranda said as she stood, collecting the last of the dishes.

‘No,’ Andy said. ‘Today I just didn’t know I needed it,’ she finished with a shrug.

Miranda watched her for beat, as if looking for something. A lie perhaps, or some hidden truth that only she could find. It was a look Andy was subjected to often. It wasn’t that Miranda didn’t trust her, more that she seemed to suspect that she was always putting on a brave face, that the world hurt her more than it appeared to.

Maybe Miranda understood her better than she understood herself. 

The days were harder than she ever remembered them being when she was younger and more naïve. She had less faith in the world than she had once had, and scars that reminded her how quickly life could alter course. 

Miranda nodded and continued course to the kitchen, leaving Andy feeling like she had passed some kind of test for the day. Sometimes she wished Miranda saw less. There were places she liked to keep hidden, even from herself.

‘The cleaner is coming by tomorrow,’ Miranda said by way of explanation as she took the plates from Andy’s hands and deposited them in the sink.

‘When is the book arriving?’

‘I brought it home with me earlier this evening, and there’s nothing that requires any immediate attention,’ Miranda said as she wiped her hands on a discarded dish towel, ‘Bed?’ 

‘I’m not tired.’

‘I didn’t say anything about _sleeping_ , Andrea,’ Miranda said as she exited the room.  

‘Oh, but I have a _headache_ ,’ Andy called after her, and she could hear footsteps pause on the staircase.

‘Ever the comedienne, aren’t we?’ Miranda called back, her voice barely raised but audible.  

Andy smiled as she thought back to a morning many years ago, in a pokey apartment with a topless and suddenly less terrifying editor-in-chief uttering those exact words.

Perhaps that was the truth, the constant that bridged the canyon between her two lives.

Andy walked out of the kitchen and caught Miranda on the stairs. 

‘Always,’ she smiled.


End file.
